


Your Eyes in a Darkened Room

by Aconissa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fic Exchange, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, exchangelock, only mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aconissa/pseuds/Aconissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My <a href="http://exchangelock.tumblr.com/">exchangelock</a> gift for <a href="http://rrduscan.tumblr.com/">rrduscan.</a></p><p>John Watson returns injured from the Second Anglo-Afghan war, only to experience a breakdown and then grief at his sister's death. He manages to create a normal and thoroughly boring life for himself, before the famous spirit-medium William Scott appears and sees him for who he really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Eyes in a Darkened Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RR_Duscan (damozel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/gifts).



> This is a bit late, my apologies! I've been sick and just started university and life has been a bit hectic. It's also unfinished, but the next (and likely final) chapter will be up within the week.
> 
> The prompt was for Sherlock as a famous spirit-medium, hosting seances across London in the late 19th-early 20th century. It was loads of fun to write! Rated explicit for the later chapter.
> 
> John in this story is partially based on the original canon character and Arthur Conan Doyle himself.
> 
> Comments and kudos would be loved!
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](http://aconissa.tumblr.com/)

Doctor John Watson, formerly of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers, appeared to be an ordinary man upon first acquaintance. Once someone had taken in his unassuming stature, common name, and respectable profession, all within minutes of meeting him, they had already formed an idea of his character that was invariably based on that of any other doctors of their association. But it was just as invariably _wrong_ , a mistake that Doctor Watson never bothered to correct. He was content to slip into this pre-made character that everyone expected of him, simply because it was easy.

Had John actually had any close friends or family members that he was in contact with, then this disguise would have been much harder to maintain. Anyone aware of his personal history would have known about his determination to serve in Her Majesty’s Army as a young man, his injuries in the service, and the months of care he required following his discharge and breakdown.

Not that anyone would have talked about it, had they known. It wasn’t becoming to talk of illnesses of the mind – such talk was confined to the libraries of radical outcast scientists or the cold offices of insane asylums. To anyone who saw him, John Watson was a normal man and a good doctor. To John Watson himself, the face he saw in the mirror each morning was wearing a mask. But he felt ill-fitted to his disguise, and constantly itched to tear it off and burn it to pieces.

Simply, John Watson was _bored_. But this was not the boredom of a child on a rainy day, forced to stay inside with books he did not wish to read. This was the kind of boredom that pressed constantly at the back of the mind, scratching at the barriers of its cage. John Watson had known excitement, purpose, _danger_ , and had been wrenched from all that by a simple Jezail bullet to the shoulder. An unfortunate injury, his regiment said. A noble wound, civilian acquaintances added. John Watson called it the end of his life.

Upon returning to England, John was put into his sister Harriet’s care, as she was the last close relative he had living. Her death not two months later almost entirely destroyed his chances at mental recovery. But through the months of gossip, shame, and pity, he finally managed to emerge as a seemingly normal member of London society. He joined the general practice of Michael Stamford, an old university friend, and began his life of appointments and visits and day after day of endless mediocrity.

It was on one such day that John Watson was limping down Montague street to their practice off Russell Square that his attention was caught by a commotion in one of the bookshops lining the footpath. He joined the small crowd in front of the open door and peered inside to see two men grappling together in a mess of paper and books. One man, the shorter of the two, seemed to be holding something close to his chest, which his thin, dark-haired adversary was trying to wrestle from his grasp. John couldn’t make out what they were saying – at least one of them was shouting in French, if not both. Before he could act on the impulse to run in and join them, the shorter man wriggled out of the other’s arms and burst out of the building. He would have broken through the crowd and taken off down the street had John not decided in that split second to stick his leg out and trip the man, allowing the other to reach him, along with three policemen who had appeared from around the corner.

John watched intrigued as the short man was arrested and placed in a police carriage, the dark-haired man left on the pavement and rapidly speaking to a senior officer while he waved around the object he had managed to recover from the brawl. It was a book, John could now see, but it was moving too quickly though the air for him to determine its title. Instead, John’s gaze was transfixed on the man. Now that he was relatively still, John could see that he was around thirty, thin but subtly muscular under his clothes, and remarkably handsome. Perhaps not in a conventional way, but John was struck by the alien beauty of his sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes. He was talking so quickly that it was hard to make much out besides the deep cadence of his voice. John stood there listening for several moments, before he noticed that the rest of the crowd had dispersed. Checking his pocket watch, he saw that he was several minutes late already, and would be even more if he stalled any longer. He turned, making his way back down the street, before looking back at the corner to glimpse the man one more time. Despite the distance between them, their eyes briefly locked, a flicker of something like interest in the other’s face. Before John could make anything of it, his feet had taken him around the corner and out of the man’s sight.

~0~

Later in the week, as he was packing up his office, John heard a knock on his door. He looked up to see Michael Stamford standing in the doorway, a genial smile on his face.

“Quite a day, wasn’t it, Watson?” He said, stepping into the room. “I thought that if Mrs Harroway made one more attempt to recommend her son as our clerk I would need to have her escorted away.”

John chuckled. “She was definitely persistent. Are you finished for the day as well?”

“Yes, I’m about to be off. But before I left, I wanted to invite you to dinner at my home on Friday evening.”

John frowned in surprise. While he had dined with Stamford many times, he had never been to his house. Mrs Stamford did not seem particularly interested in meeting another of her husband’s doctor friends, which John did not fault her for. Stamford did not wait for a response, however.

“Well in all fairness, ‘dinner’ is perhaps not the most accurate term. At least not for the entirety of the night’s activities.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, thoroughly confused.

Stamford chuckled in embarrassment. “Have you ever heard of William Scott?”

John stared at him in disbelief. “You mean the spirit medium? You’re hosting a _séance_?”

Stamford nodded. “My wife enjoys all that intrigue. Complete tosh of course, but I don’t interfere with her fads.” He fiddled with his shirt cuffs for a moment, slightly embarrassed. “I suppose I just wished for another rational human being to be there with me. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” He began to leave, his face light pink, before John replied.

“It’s perfectly fine. Consider your invitation accepted.” He smirked conspiratorially. “I cannot leave you alone in a room full of crackpots summoning the dead, can I?”

Stamford laughed in relief. “Cheers, Watson. I was worried I might go mad without someone sensible to talk to.” He clapped John affectionately on the back. “So we can expect you at our house in Grays Inn, around seven?”

John nodded. “Should be an interesting experience.” He waved as Stamford walked out of the room. Perhaps it wasn’t a battle, but it would be something.

~0~

John arrived at the Stamford house not long after seven. He was joined at the entrance by a young couple, another doctor and his wife, who he made small talk with before the door was opened and they were allowed inside.

The house was not decorated extravagantly, and John could see Michael’s influence in the warm colours and the neatness of the furnishings. The whole place exuded a sense of normality and welcome – it reminded John of the waiting room of their practice. He made his way through the entrance hall, following the other guests into what would usually have been the dining room, except that the traditional long table had been replaced by a smaller circular one.

“Watson!” A voice called, and John turned to see Michael’s beaming face coming towards him. “Welcome to my home. You’re met Mrs Stamford, of course,” he nodded to his wife, who was just walking past.

“Lovely to see you again,” John said, bowing his head at the auburn-haired woman. She smiled back, her attention clearly caught by something else.

“And you, Doctor. I’m terribly sorry, but would you excuse me? I must go greet our guest of honour.” She hurried off before John could say anything, and he stared after here bemused.

“That will be the great Mr Scott, then?” John asked Stamford with a wry smile.

“The one and only. I’d best join her. Take a seat if you’d like, we’ll be starting soon.” Stamford nodded at him before walking off, telling other guests to sit on his way.

John chose to stand around the table instead. He didn’t think he had the energy to actively participate in this charade, but he still wanted to see what happened. Few things piqued his interest nowadays, but as much as he hated to admit it, this did.

When all of the guests had arranged themselves around the table, a third of them seated, the doors opened and Mr and Mrs Stamford walked back into the room. In their wake came a tall man with unruly dark hair that John recognised.

The man from the bookshop was William Scott.


End file.
